


You Can Go Your Own Way/Tell Me Lies

by jehane18



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Choose Your Own Adventure, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-24
Updated: 2010-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-13 16:14:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/139213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehane18/pseuds/jehane18
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's an Idol reunion at <i>"FOX's Christmas Special: Ten Years of American Idol"</i> - of course, no Idol special would be complete without many duets and a group sing! You can go your own way: Carrie mentors Dave, or Dave mentors Kris. Whichever pairing you choose, romantic shenanigans occur. Fireplace optional.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You can call it another lonely day

**Author's Note:**

> For the [aiholidaybash challenge 2009](http://community.livejournal.com/aiholidaybash/12204.html) on livejournal, and [](http://oceansdream.livejournal.com/profile)[**oceansdream**](http://oceansdream.livejournal.com/).

David Cook doesn't know how he feels about being back on the Idol stage again. Everything seems smaller, and he doesn't even mean that metaphorically - the Nokia Theatre has undergone a serious overhaul as part of the new downtown L.A. Live Entertainment Complex. It's even stranger to see a Santa Claus hat draped over the familiar blue neon sign and a snowflake dotting the lowercase "i", but David supposes the American Idol franchise needs all the help it can get as it heads into its 11th year.

Overhead, the screens shriek, "FOX Christmas Special: Ten Years of American Idol" in garish hues of blood-red and neon-green. David squints; clearly, the suits have been taking design cues from new guest judge Quentin Tarantino, who's into everything about the show these days, from the new arrangements with the house band to Simon Cowell's rather frightening new wardrobe.

"Need reading glasses?" inquires a sly voice at his elbow. David turns, blinking a little at the profusion of spiky platinum blond hair, bling and blindingly handsome features: the Season Ten winner looks even younger close up. The stylists have made him wear a baseball jersey that has "10" on it in big red sequins, as if, after 54 million votes, they were afraid people wouldn't know which Idol he was.

"Nah, wondering if you'd learned to Photoshop like that in kindergarten."

"Natch," and for a second David doesn't know if Aaron Chambers means "Naturally," or "How dare you disrespect me, my man," but the kid flashes his patented diamond-toothed grin and reaches out to bump fists with Dave, so he figures it's the former. Anyway, David's pretty certain this year's fierce, take-no-prisoners winner wouldn't sucker-punch him on national TV, or in front of the armies of ushers and techs and guys with clipboards getting ready to go live for the big special.

"Day-dreaming, boys? That's no way to get ahead." There's the sardonic English accent he still hears sometimes, three years later, in the anxiety-dream that had replaced the one where he's naked and flunking his high school physics exam. Simon Cowell crosses the stage, trailing assistants, decked out in Christmassy goodness - clearly, he must be in love.

All six foot two inches of Aaron are totally trembling beside David; he's had only weeks to try to get over the naked-on-national-TV anxiety dreams.

David stands his ground. He's feeling pretty good about his relationship with 19E and FOX: his three-year contract with RCA is about to expire, and over those years, he'd actually sung their song about magic rainbows and worked their executive rockstar look. At the same time, he'd made the music he'd wanted to make, and had only had to compromise a couple of times, nothing big - nothing involving red velvet, like Cowell is wearing now; Tarantino must be pretty fucking persuasive.

"Simon, don't you look nice!"

Simon gives David a dark look that clearly means, _Don't screw with me, you little prick_. David's surprised Aaron doesn't wet his low-slung pants in the face of Simon's glare; he kind of feels sorry for the kid, who'll have to navigate the label's shenanigans and image-mavens, and find his own voice amongst the sound which Jive would foist upon him.

And here's someone who's turned her back on the image-mavens entirely: Queen Kelly enters from stage left, wearing an iconic "ONE" sticker on her cheek, makes a kissing noise and claps her hand on Simon's shoulder. Simon recoils visibly and David laughs out loud.

"You're a mean one, Mr. Cook," whispers Carrie Underwood's silvery voice from behind him, and she comes round, pressing her cheek to his in a hello. She's wearing a not-at-all-subtle "Season 4" on a beauty pageant ribbon around her chest.

"Hey! When did you get in?" Carrie currently has a sell-out Christmas gig in the Las Vegas Venetian; it's even bigger than Celine Dion's was. "How did you get away?" Maybe she'd hired Hannah Montana to be her stand-in tonight, though he can't believe the high rollers would be that easily fooled.

"Wouldn't miss this," says Carrie, and she wouldn't have - out of all of them, she's the one who had embraced the corporate line the most wholeheartedly. She's 19E's poster girl, their Once and Future Idol.

"Teacher's pet," murmurs David, into her hair, and she pokes him so hard the number 7 nearly falls off his vest.

"Shut up, you're such a delinquent. That stuff gets so old."

"The best jokes are the old ones," says Kris Allen, blond and grinning and all in defiant black (David was sure he'd been told to dress Christmassy). The Idol stylists must have only gotten him to agree to a sprig of holly and a subtle "8" pinned to his jacket lapel. Kris leans over to kiss Carrie on the cheek, and then kisses Dave, too. The Hollywood air-kissing thing is a great excuse for contact, so not to be outdone, Dave takes the opportunity to squeeze Kris' ass.

"I see you're still up to your old handsy ways, David," Kris grins, not pulling away, and David digs his hand pointedly into Kris' back pocket.

David says, "See, there was all this noise about me, but _you_ were the true hugger of this franchise. Like, a stealth hugger, or something. All the photos of you had your nose in someone's shoulder, seriously."

"Nice to know you're looking at old photos of me," says Kris, pulling away like the stealthy hugger he is, and tacks himself to Carrie's other side instead.

This is the configuration they adopt an hour or so later when they go live and are told to come onstage again. Carrie walks out holding David and Kris by either hand, and they bracket her on the stage's barstool set-up.

It’s been a while: David had last seen Kris and Carrie earlier this summer, at the hilarious rock and roll wedding of David Archuleta and Allison Iraheta. The bride had been beautiful in black leather, a rose in her red hair, and Arch had worn white, like he’d done the last time he'd stood on the Idol stage with David in 2008. David had been so proud and happy for them both he'd kind of cried into his hand throughout the service.

When he dried his eyes and looked around surreptitiously, he had seen Kris wiping his eyes, too. He knew how Kris felt about Allison, although he totally didn't need to be this protective: the kid was fierce and fantastic, and a perfect match for _his_ kid, his Archie...

On his other side, Carrie had made a face at him. _You boys are so emo_ , she telegraphed, and squeezed Dave’s hand.

He'd always had that connection with Carrie; they'd been buddies ever since their duet on "You Can Go Your Own Way" at the opening of the American Idol Experience in Orlando in 2008, and he'd guest-starred in her Christmas Special the year after.

He'd actually done some training in order to prepare for the 2009 special. Carrie was a runner; she was probably three times fitter than he was, and had three times less body fat - she was totally going to show him up, otherwise.

She'd confronted him about it backstage. "I hear you've been pumping iron, heartthrob," she'd drawled, one hand on her flawless hip. "Afraid you can't keep up?"

"Hey, it's Dolly Parton I'm worried about. I can totally take _you_ ," he'd said, and made one of his gross faces at her, and she'd laughed so hard she had had to sit down. She'd actually still been kind of winded when they hit sound-check, and like a goofball he'd flashed her signs of the "I can take you!" variety throughout the taping. She still hasn't forgiven him.

Over the years, they'd ended up doing some industry stuff together; Carrie was a shrewd businesswoman who'd had six years of hands-on experience at the top of the music industry. He'd learned how to deal with 19E and RCA from her, and he'd been so impressed with her agent, Cecilia, that he'd hired her, too.

Of course, their relationship wasn't all business; they were friends. He'd taken her on a spin on the rollercoaster at the newest Disney theme park in Oklahoma when it had opened during the spring, for old times' sake, enjoying watching her face turn green as they tipped upside down. They'd had lunches and dinners when their tours and the industry circuit brought them to the same town, and she'd come with him a couple of times to watch their team, the Kansas City Royals, wearing a ball cap and the cutest short shorts this side of the Great Divide.

Like the old friend he was, he'd sent her flowers last year when she'd announced her engagement to Mike Fisher. When Cecilia had told him in May that Mike had called it off, he'd rung Carrie and offered to put a hit out on the bastard Midwest-style, and heard her somewhat shaky giggle down the phone in response.

It had made him kind of see red, so he'd cancelled some appointments later that week and flown down to Oklahoma to hang out with her and Kellie Pickler for the day. They'd all gone to the Rodeo Club in Nashville and danced till the wee hours of the morning. The press the next day had been great, everything Cecilia and 19E might have hoped for - David himself looked kind of a mess, because he hadn't had time to get to a stylist to Oklahoma, but Carrie had looked amazing, blonde and single again in a lace top and painted-on jeans. The photos were fantastic enough to make any ex-fiance emasculate himself; he hoped Fisher choked on something when he realized what he'd let slip away.

And, ever since the GMAs in New York City in the summer of 2009, he'd bonded with Kris - they were both small town boys at heart with big dreams, with things for guitar pedals and ball games, for retooling old rock songs and arrangements and making them their own. When Adam Lambert and Kris' wife Katy had abandoned them in favor of black tie gala seats at _La Boheme_ the evening after their epic concert in the park, they'd ended up having a quiet drink together at the Four Seasons, just chilling and watching the baseball game on TV.

He'd made time to hang out with Kris after the 2009 finale, tried to give him a couple of pointers about the Idol winners' process and the music industry, pass along the ancient wisdom like Carrie had passed it to him. Kris was a business major, he knew about licensing and franchises and the way non-compete clauses worked; they'd sat down one night over beers, during a break from the Idols 2009 and Declaration tours, and they'd dissected the Jive/RCA template contract together. A couple of days later, Kris sent him a text about how, thanks to their conversation, he'd rather impressively managed to ask his lawyers the right questions at their pre-Jive meeting, and David had responded with the story of how he'd marched into his own lawyers' office and threatened them with a malpractice suit for not advising him sufficiently on the third-album addendum clause buried at the end of the document.

Kris had sent him front row tickets to his headlining promotional tour for "Live Like We're Dying" and his first album, and his second soundtrack album, "Prayers and Little Boxes", for this year's James Bond XII. They hung out after the 2010 Grammys and the AI9 finale, and David had made fun of Kris' surrender of his crown to lissome, big-eyed Zadie Scott-Palay and of the tight-fitting lace-up leather pants they'd made the outgoing American Idol wear. Kris' snide response was that he'd filled them better than David had - which was totally untrue, c'mon - and 19E had had to execute a pull order on the undignified photos of two former Idols trying to put each other in a headlock.

And David called Kris the day the story finally broke about him and Katy.

"Dude, the _National Enquirer_ says she's shacked up with the co-star of her last movie, _People_ says you want kids but she doesn't, and TMZ has photographic proof that you're being banged by Adam Lambert. Which is it?"

"Why do these gossip sites never have _me_ banging Adam? Don't I look like a top to you, David?" Kris sounded quite calm, able to make jokes even, and David grinned into the receiver.

"You know I think you're all front-man, all the time. How's Adam?"

"In Vegas, on his honeymoon! Brad's going to be thrilled when he sees photographic proof of me banging his husband. Or Adam banging me, whatever." Kris sounded a little distant, and Dave pictured him rubbing his eyes tiredly in that way he did sometimes.

"You okay?"

"I will be," said Kris, and that was that, and when David showed up on his doorstep five days later with beers and VIP tickets to the Dodgers game, well, he happened to be in the neighborhood and it was something friends did all the time.

There had been paparazzi hanging out in the bushes outside Kris' brand new bachelor pad. To David's disgust, however, there were no scandalous articles about either of them banging the other, even though Kris had new blond highlights and had worn an adorable striped t-shirt and aviator shades, and had looked pretty good for a guy who was going through a messy divorce under the unforgiving glare of the media.

As Kris is looking good now, a year on from that divorce, the ubiquitous wedding band beloved of storytellers and speculators missing from his left hand as he grips his microphone and flashes his easy grin at David.

Seacrest calls each Idol's name in turn, and the shrieks from the live audience wash over them like a tidal wave. Carrie gives Dave a huge, Hollywoodian wink.

It's showtime, American Idol style.

  
And showtime means too many cheesy singing-and-dancing montages and Christmas songs, interspersed with shots of the various Idol winners and runners-up performing good deeds around the world. Guest stars abound - John Mayer is back, and Mariah Carey and the Black-Eyed Peas, and Shirley Bassey, who sings with Jordin Sparks on "I Who Have Nothing". Ben Stiller and Taylor Hicks perform an excruciating stand-up comic routine. There's a special recorded message from President Obama in a cute Christmas hat, paying homage to ten years of an American institution and giving a somewhat awkward shout-out to young Aaron, the latest in that grand line.

The Idols themselves sing solos, of course, and duet with each other. David sings "Plaid Hearts", the first single from his new album, which sounds strange with the Tarantino-fueled house band rather than in the safe hands of the Anthemic, and "One Song Glory", which he'd been singing every night now for the past four weeks on the star-studded Broadway revival of RENT.

And of course no Idol reunion would be complete without the mandatory group sing and Kumbayayas. They've done a cheesy music video to "The Twelve Days of Christmas" - Dave had landed _seven swans a-swimming_ , of course, which had been a true test of his manhood, but it had been better than the _eight maids a-milking_ , or the eight buxom models in period dress and carrying pails that Kris had been saddled with, and they'd all gotten a kick out of watching Carrie shriek over her four calling birds and Reuben Studdard pull two turtledoves awesomely out of a top hat.

Then there's an old though non-Christmassy song for the grand finale. FOX had just purchased the rights to the Kids From Fame soundtrack, and some bright spark had thought it would be a great idea for the Idols to sing the ancient Fame song, "Starmaker" as a meaningful paean to the Idol franchise, which had in fact made the ten of them into stars.

There had been very little time for rehearsal, and the number could easily have fallen flat on its face. But you don't get to win Idol and not be able to fly by the seat of your fucking pants, and thusly they all hit the song running, even though Kelly looks like she's about to murder someone when she leads off with, _Here as I watch the ships go by, I'm rooted to my shore..._ , and Reuben moves in, silky-smooth, _I keep asking myself why and if there's more on the other side._

Fantasia is rocking her glittery number three necklace. She smiles at Carrie, and they both harmonize prettily on, _Here as I see the friends I thought I made, a little bit crazy to know by now we've outgrown one another..._

All the Idols pour themselves as one into the chorus, Carrie's voice ringing out loud and clear in the high notes above the rest: _Star-maker, dream breaker, soul taker - we're happy now..._

Taylor's line, all-too-meaningfully, is _Now when I see the things I want_ ; Jordin's, clear-eyed and calm, is _I can take the things I see_ \- then, David's up, and he's singing, _But I keep asking myself why, and if there ain't just a little bit more for me_. He puts his lungs into the low growl on the end, a little more emphasis than he'd intended: he sees his three and a half years in the industry, filled with glittering professional success, all of them spent alone.

And Kris takes the next verse, and, oh God, David hasn't realized how poignant it is - _Here when it's time to count the cost, I keep measuring what I've lost_ \- and David can't look at him, suddenly, hearing the catch in his voice, knowing what he's given up to get to this place; David feels his eyes get red in the way he somehow always gets on this stage.

Zadie takes the last line: _And wondering if you knew it would all end up with you_. And it does - it begins and ends with Fox, with Idol: the starmaker, soultaker. He's not sure, looking at her lovely face, her Streisand mouth, whether she's truly happy, then or now. Perhaps none of them are. He wouldn't be at all surprised.

Finally, the long show and taping onstage are over, and the interminable press offstage as well. The obligatory Idol after-party commences in the Bellini Room of the glamorous new L.A. Live Entertainment Complex. Tarantino and Cowell leave early, though Ellen and Portia linger to speak with David and some of the others.

Ellen squeezes his arm. "Hey, your RENT reviews are awesome! How's sharing the stage with Alice Braga?"

"Phenomenal," says David, and tries not to think about her golden skin, her red lips, her tears when she left his bed for the last time. Hey, at least he was trying to branch out from his thing for blondes, if not particularly successfully. Come to think of it, he hasn't been that successful with blondes either; it had been a rather undistinguished few years. He suppresses his hindbrain-wired leer at Portia, who winks at him before taking her leave.

David sighs. It has been a long and surprisingly emotional day, and he needs to get back to New York tomorrow for his evening show. But he has time for a quick drink, he supposes, for old times' sake.

And, if he's to admit his feelings to himself, there's an itch, a simmering fire under his skin that has been tugging at him ever since tonight's performance, although he's not going to do anything about it. An insufficient number of suitable blondes, he tells himself: the one that had been on stage with him is _not_ fair game.

Dave decides to snag a fancy cocktail instead, and then another. After a while, with alcohol's warm glow spreading its usual cheer through his body, David is feeling light, happy - full of Christmas spirit. He's glad he'd come back to spend this evening with nine people who share this unique experience with him, the only people in the world who understand what it's like to have once been America's fucking Idol.

Well, nobody said any of them knew how to party properly. Rod Stewart and Jordin are making an inappropriate May-to-December tableau on the dance floor. Ben Stiller and Fantasia are trading shots of champagne and one-sided irony; in her heels, she's tall enough to rest her drink on his head. Zadie is batting her glittery eyelashes and posing for photos with Lindsey Lohan.

It's totally a surprise, but Reuben and Taylor seem to actually be hitting it off, sitting in a corner and whispering in each other's ears. He feels a rush of affection for them. The other surprise is that Kelly has the end of Aaron's longest necklace hooked around one elegant finger, and he's practically clinging to her leg; she might choose to cut the kid loose, eventually, but Dave kind of hopes she puts the nineteen-year-old's stamina to good use instead.

"Wanna get out of here?" Carrie's snuck up behind him again, and slides her hand into his, Kris on her other arm.

  
The three of them end up in a discreet bar in the adjacent Ritz-Carlton Hotel, where Carrie is staying tonight, and so is Dave - he'd taken the opportunity to have new floors put into his house in Beverly Hills while he's away doing Broadway. No security since the hotel detail's sufficient, Kris' Jeep is parked in the VIP parking lot for a speedy getaway.

Idols Four, Seven and Eight, as their chests helpfully denote, huddle in their dark booth in a tight semi-circle. The waiter brings them Coronas and white wine.

"Think we're safe here?"

David grins. "Which one was it: Mayer or Timberlake?"

Carrie groans, and, unusually for her, tosses her drink down her throat. "Both, I don't even wanna know. You're not the only one with a thing for blondes, David."

"No, obviously, because I saw Lady Gaga getting friendly with Mr. Allen," David says.

Kris makes a face into his beer: "Not a huge fan, sorry. Her white leather face mask kinda creeps me out."

"Her everything kind of creeps me out," Dave confesses, and Carrie bursts out laughing.

"Seriously, how much do we suck, right now? I mean, look at us, award-winning artists, gorgeous and single, and we're not out there Christmas-partying it up, we're hiding in this bar. Our agents should kill us." Carrie shakes her head.

"After the divorce, my agent came up with a list of people I was allowed to date," sighs Kris.

"Was I on it?" Dave and Carrie demand together, and then grin and point fingers at each other.

"No, and no. Believe me, if either of you had been, it would've been an improvement," and Kris, too, tosses back his drink. "I agree with you, Underwood, we totally suck."

"Nature of the beast," says David, softly. "I mean, all of us are busy." He considers his fellow Idols; all the Idols, really. Single, now, each of them, and none more so than the one who'd come into the game with a wedding ring.

What do you know, the franchise really was a soul-taker after all, and had somehow left all of them self-obsessed, workaholic, and incapable of holding onto a relationship. Did Zadie find this to be true? Was Aaron having a hard time? They'd soon learn. He rubs his eyes.

"Hey." Kris reaches over the table, and runs a gentle thumb over his wrist. "At least we suck collectively. It could be worse."

"What, that all ten of us are sad sacks, alone at Christmas? There's something worse?" David summons refills; they're never going to get through this night dry.

"Worse is that I think Taylor and Reuben were kind of getting it on, when we left." Carrie rolls her eyes, and Kris smacks her lightly on the hand.

"C'mon,” he tells her, “I know how you feel about Taylor, but I thought it was sweet. You know, at least they can be sure they're with someone who _gets_ it."

Carrie puts her head on Kris' shoulder. "Allen, you're such a romantic. But, y'know, I think you might be right."

David drains his drink and looks at them, blonde heads close together. He feels something shift deep inside him. _Here stands everything I thought I made - It's the only life I know, and I can't even call it my own._ Maybe that's true: self-obsessed, workaholic, and incapable of holding onto a relationship, except, perhaps, with someone who gets it, who lives the same obsession with self, with work, every single day.

The eyes that have seen everything Dave's seen; a heart that's felt everything Dave's felt.

 _I've got no home, I belong to you_. Idol, that fucking starmaker.

_Who is it, that Dave sees? You can go your own way._

[[Carrie: Only fools rush in and only time will tell if we stand the test of time](http://archiveofourown.org/works/139213/chapters/200097)]  
[[Kris: If I could turn the page, in time then I'd rearrange just a day with you](http://archiveofourown.org/works/139213/chapters/200098)] 


	2. Why Can't This Be Love?

  
**Chapter Two: Why Can't This Be Love?**  


[[Back to Chapter One: You Can Call It Another Lonely Day](http://archiveofourown.org/works/139213/chapters/200088)]

They've built up quite a store of empty bottles and glasses on the table; the waiters can't keep up with them. After a while David's starting to see the world through the glaze of alcohol, the distortion of glass. It's a strange combination, and overlaid with the knot in his stomach it could lead to potentially inadvisable behavior - _packing up, shacking up_ , he doesn't even know any more.

There's a blond head against his shoulder, and he's not sure how that happened, but he's stroking it, despite himself, despite the fact he knows so well that it's not at all advisable; _loving you isn't the right thing to do_.

Kris grins sideways at them, and slides out of the booth. "Be right back," he mumbles, heading a little unsteadily towards the men's room.

Carrie lifts her head to smile at Kris, and then puts it back on Dave's shoulder. David feels the vibration of her luminous voice along his body, through the fingers curled around his wrist.

Maybe it's the beers, but he feels as if he's back on that stage with her, singing their Christmas duet, feeling her hand clasp his wrist in the exact same way as it was doing now, as if he belonged to nobody but her.

He'd not been 100% sure of singing the Pogues' awesome, drunken classic "Fairytale of New York", but at last he'd had to agree with Fuller that the song was a good fit for him and Carrie. He'd mostly succeeded in mimicking Shane McGowan's reeling, rasping, poignant delivery, _You were pretty, Queen of New York City, When the band finished playing, they howled out for more_.

Carrie's silver, soaring voice was pitch-perfect for the late, great Kirsty McColl: _Sinatra was swinging, all the drunks they were singing, we kissed on a corner, then danced through the night_.

The second verse was even more fun. David and Carrie grinned at each other as they traded insults - _You're a bum, you're a punk - You're an old slut on junk; you scumbag, you maggot, happy Christmas your arse, I thank God it’s our last_.

They paused for the Idol band's pianist to cut in with the musical interlude, and Dave had frowned to himself - Andy would have done this so much better, or Arch - before he and Carrie launched into the crescendo: _I could have been someone - Well, so could anyone: you took my dreams from me when I first found you..._

There was a catch in Carrie's voice; her face, lifted to his, was at once fierce and sorrowful under the stage lights, full of lost dreams and lost love.

It was only a song, but David felt his heart constrict, and he heard his voice become correspondingly soft and gentler than it had ever been on this stage: _I've built my dreams around you._

And onstage, she'd held out her hand and he’d taken it, and their voices came together effortlessly: _The boys of the NYPD choir were singing "Galway Bay", and the bells were ringing out for Christmas day._

They'd embraced each other when their song was done. He'd felt the soft curve of her waist under his arms, her cheek against his. She'd always hugged him like this, full-on, and as always he couldn't do anything but hold on and enjoy the ride.

Under his hand, now, she murmurs, _scumbag_ , and he knows she's remembering the same thing, standing on that stage with him. Her hazel eyes shine in the low bar lights.

"You know, I'm never gonna live down calling you _an old slut on junk_ on national TV," he tells her, and she laughs.

"Hey, I'm the one in danger. Your fanbase is way scarier than mine, cougar bait."

"You need to give me some help with the fans," he sighs, meaning it; he feels equal parts of gratitude and affection for his fanbase, but there's the faction that keeps breaking into his tour bus and sending X-rated photos and underwear to his dressing room, and he's kind of at the end of his rope about it.

She tilts her head up so she can look into his eyes. "I taught you everything I know," she says, softly.

He stills his hand so he can concentrate, past the alcohol; he isn't sure whether something's happening, suddenly. "That you did. And I'm grateful, you know I am."

She shifts restlessly and looks at the wine glass in front of her. "No reason to be. I didn't do that good a job."

He's not used to the regretful tone; she'd been so positive all evening. He isn't sure what to say. "C'mon. You handle it the best of all of us."

"I'm good at pretending," she says, shrugging. "I'm really not dealing with it that well."

It seems she's picked tonight to put the masks aside. The simple hurt in her voice takes him by surprise. "I don't think any of us are, babe," he tells her, honestly, and she grimaces.

"Ten workaholic Idols with trust issues. Oh boy, I think I've drunk a bit too much."

It's probably true, she's had more alcohol tonight than he'd ever seen her drink, even that night at the Rodeo Club, when she'd been wild-eyed and had worn him out dancing, determined to have a good time despite that bastard Fisher. Her cheeks are pink; it would be adorable, if she wasn't so sad, so resigned, if he didn't feel these things about her.

"We should get you to bed," says Dave, and Carrie draws herself up with some composure.

"Please, I can totally handle myself."

"Hey, I'm not handling you," Dave says, before he can stop himself, and he wants to smack his forehead: God, he is so smooth. He's suddenly too aware of his hands on her body, and belatedly takes them away. His fingers burn, as if from smoldering guitar strings.

"I would," she responds; obviously, someone else is having difficulty stopping. She does in fact smack her forehead with her hand at this. "Oh God, I really have no idea what I'm saying."

He can't help but laugh at her horrified face. He loves it when she gets like this. "Underwood, you're all class."

She lifts her head, mock-dignified. "I am, actually, and you were just saying how glad you were to have been in my class."

And there's that look again, the one that he's not sure he can read. She's been so careful with the masks, before, never let on that she'd ever welcome anything more than friendship from him. She'd just said something unguarded about handling him, and a treacherous part of him murmurs: this may be what her hands have told him over the years.

He tries to push that thought away. She's his friend, his mentor, and she's had quite enough to drink tonight.

"You were the best teacher," he tells her, gently, meaning it. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Kris emerge from the men's, looking a little green around the gills. "I tried to be as good to Kris and Zadie, but I don't think I have quite your knack. 19E totally hates me and I think Kris has had enough of Jive, I don't know."

"Kris has indeed," says Kris, trying to give them his self-deprecating grin over the table. "Listen, guys, it's late, and I need to head out. I have _Vanity Fair_ coming by tomorrow; I think my people would prefer it if I didn't show with my face shoved in a bucket."

He leans over to kiss first Carrie, then Dave, on the cheek. He doesn't smell that good. "You okay to drive?" David asks.

"Better than you. Take care of her, okay?" A quick clasp, and Eight vanishes into the gloom of the bar.

 _I'll try, pal, but I doubt she needs me to,_ is what Dave thinks, looking after him. And for what she _wants_...Dave has no idea. She's full of surprises and vulnerability tonight, he's given up second-guessing her.

"Hey," he says tentatively to her. "Are you okay? We should turn in, too. You're heading out to Vegas again, and I'm back on Broadway tomorrow."

"Can't keep Roger from his adoring public," she mutters, and holds out her slender arms to him. He moves in on instinct, slides his arms around her and lifts her to her feet. She's light as sheet music, weighs hardly anything at all.

  
The Ritz-Carlton security guy detaches himself from the door of the lounge bar when they emerge, Carrie leaning into Dave's side, both of them blinking at the brightness of the lobby lights. He escorts them to the VIP elevator bank. The speculative look he gives Carrie makes David want to punch him in the nose.

With an effort, Dave fights down the alcohol-fueled aggression: TMZ would love it if he got all Sean Penn on some guy's ass. He gropes one-handed in his pocket for some bills instead. Carrie stands up straight as Dave hands the guy a ten (maybe it's a twenty), saying with affability he doesn't feel: "Thanks, man, we got this."

Security Guy looks a little more respectfully at the bill and takes a step backwards, and Dave and Carrie are alone in the VIP elevator.

"Carrie. We need your card."

She rummages in her sparkly purse, leaning her forehead against the lift panel. When Dave keys the card reader with her card, she presses the button for the top floor.

Dave stares for a beat as the elevator lurches to life, and then he waves her card at her. "Aw man, _this_ is proof that the suits love you best! Fox booked _me_ on the club floor!"

"Hush, you," she murmurs, catching his gesticulating hand by the wrist, holds it still. Her lithe, little fingers are warm, and she's suddenly very sober. "The thing about the suits, as you know, is that you have to play their game."

"Never been good at game-playing," he tells her, truthfully. He watches as her fingers make their way up his arm. He doesn't know where she's taking this. Her touch pulls him like an insistent guitar hook, he's as helpless to resist. He wants her very badly; he thinks maybe he's always wanted her, though he hasn't ever admitted it to himself before this night.

"No, you're not. I love that about you," and she's taking hold of his lapels and reaching up.

David tries not to think too hard when she kisses him, this first time, after so many years of not thinking about doing this. It's not difficult, because her lips, the possessive way her hands cup the back of his head, the sway of her body against his, are all making it hard to breathe, let alone think coherently.

 _If I could, maybe I'd give you my world_. The stray lyric darts into his brain, and he pushes it away, tries not to think this or do anything at all except press her into the side of the elevator and kiss her back, and to count the floors as they go by, agonizingly slowly, until they finally reach the top.

Somehow, he manages to get them out of the lift, and into the Presidential Suite, without dropping her card or falling over or breaking something. The suite is three times the size of Dave's Fifth Avenue penthouse apartment. The bed's too far away, which is why they only make it as far as the sofa before Dave's knees give way and they fall into the plush Kelly Hoppen fabric.

 _Oh here it comes, that feeling again, winding me up inside every time we touch_. Despite his best efforts, Dave's brain seems to have caught up to recent events and is doing its usual mile-a-minute monologue; he's kind of horrified that it's actually supplying a soundtrack from their last Christmas duet.

Carrie finally breaks the kiss and pulls back to look at him - he's shaken at how transparent her eyes are, suddenly, as though he can see to the bottom of her soul.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, breathing unevenly. "I didn't mean to just jump on you like this. But I don't want to be alone tonight."

"It's okay," he tells her ( _it's okay_ , what kind of stupid thing to say is that, Christ, you'd think he was some insensitive frat boy, as opposed to someone who's wanted this for longer than he'd ever admitted to himself). "Not going anywhere. I'll stay as long as you want."

She bends back down, leans her forehead against his. "I want to remember what love feels like," she whispers, fiercely, and winds her fingers in David's hair.

_No I can’t recall any love at all, baby this blows ‘em all away._

Dave decides he's done talking, done thinking, and pulls her down to him. The sequins on her dress dig into his hands as he runs them down her sides, hikes her skirt up past her hips. She makes a small ragged sound when his fingers hook in the silk of her panties and sucks on his lower lip in a way that'll leave marks.

It's first-time messy, and frantic and glorious; Dave is kind of glad he's had so many beers, because it allows him to take this a little more slowly than he'd otherwise have managed. He holds her, gentling her, one arm around her waist, and slides his wet, slick fingers inside her, stroking unhurriedly with his thumb, feeling her open against him. Advancing, retreating, then slow and staccato, pushing deeply, _curling up_ , and she presses her face into the crook of his neck and shivers as if she's coming apart.

Afterward, she murmurs something about guitar-playing biceps as he picks her up and lays her carefully across her bed, as if she's made of delicate clefts and quavers strung together on a chain.

But there's nothing fragile about the way her hands grasp his hipbones, white-knuckled and hard like a searing bass line, or the impatient noise she makes when he fumbles with his single booty-call condom, or how she wraps her long legs around his waist, pulling him all the way inside her. Suddenly, all the beers in the world aren't enough to take the frantic edge off their rhythm as she digs her nails into his back, and he's cursing helplessly and coming all too soon.

As he rolls off and to her side, panting furiously, he hears her voice in his head: _Straight from my heart, oh, tell me why can’t this be love?_

He wakes from restless dreams to the early morning light filtering through brocade, fine sheets he doesn't recognize. The polished floors of a too-large room roll away from him in the distance.

Before he's opened his eyes, he's aware of her in his arms, slender body a quiet counterpoint against his. He doesn't know how someone this featherlight can weigh so much in the world.

_If I could, maybe I'd give you my world; how can I, when you won't take it from me?_

When he looks down at the bright head on his shoulder, he sees she's already awake. She's holding herself very still, watching him; she looks like she's been awake for some time.

"Hey," he says, a little awkwardly, moving his arm out from under her. He isn't sure what to say. He usually has no problems with the morning-after conversation, so being this tongue-tied is a first.

She shifts away from him a little. Her eyes are clouded with thoughts she isn't sharing. "I was wondering what to say to you, when you woke up," she says, hesitantly.

"You watching me sleep?" Like a creeper, he almost says; for some reason, it makes him grin widely, and she smiles and makes a flapping movement with her hand.

"Hey, I always wake up early. To run. Not like you'd know!"

"Don't knock my fitness levels. Besides, I didn't hear you complaining last night," and she's blushing, and he's pulling her close again. The morning-after kissing is usually kind of gross, but he can't get enough of it, for some reason, and she's kissing back at least equally enthusiastically.

When she rolls him onto his back and straddles him, he groans, "We're out of rubbers!" He doesn't even care how frat-boy that sounds.

"Oh, I think we can improvise," she says archly, sliding down his body, hands and soft mouth intent.

  
Later he tries to return the compliment, and he grins to himself as she hits that perfect high note that once brought all three judges to their feet and secured 40 million votes.

  
Later still, she tangles herself in his arms and puts her head on his chest. He holds her and feels the second thoughts, the doubts, slowly circle and regroup and alight on her shoulder.

"Don't think so hard about this," he tells her, finally. "Not everything has a downside, or a good angle or strategy."

He feels her mouth stretch in a reluctant smile. "Damn, you know all my secrets. Should have known better than to hook up with another Idol."

"Hey, you taught me everything you know."

"I did!" She raises herself on her elbows, traces his collarbone with a tentative finger. "Not sure I should have, now we've done this."

She says it casually, but his stomach drops away, and he has to take a moment to ensure his voice doesn't shake. "Don’t be afraid, Carrie."

"Not afraid," she says, but she doesn't meet his eyes.

"Really? Because I'm fucking terrified." And suddenly, he has the words after all, although he's never had a morning-after conversation this honest or heartfelt before.

He's never had a morning-after conversation with another Idol before, as it happens. Maybe that was conducive to honesty, because he knew she'd see through all his bullshit, his mechanisms of self-interest and self-defense, right to the heart of him.

She finally meets his eyes and speaks very slowly, very softly. "Don't _you_ be scared of me."

Or maybe it was just that she was making him honest, bending over him, clad only in the brightness of her hair.

"I don't want to leave," he tells her, and damn if he's not entirely calm. He knows she needs to get back to Vegas, he knows his flight to New York leaves before noon. He should just wear a sign that says Emo Fucking Idol.

He sees her hesitate. _You can go your own way, you can count another lonely day._

"Stay," she says, finally, and cups his cheek. "I don't need to go running this morning."

He hopes she means it; he's not sure he could keep up with her otherwise. He sees her trainers flashing over the hard, snowy ground, keeping ahead of the paparazzi, ahead of hurt, of love. _You’ve got to run to win, and I’ll be damned if I’ll get hung up on the time._

"Four, that sounds like a promise."

"That's because it is," she murmurs, and he takes her hand. _Tell me, why can't this be love?_

[[Don't think this can be love? Why don't you turn the page, and rearrange a day or two; to have him tell you lies?](http://archiveofourown.org/works/139213/chapters/2000978)]


	3. I'll settle for one day to believe in you

  
**(Alternative Chapter): I'll settle for one day to believe in you**  


[[Back to Chapter One: You Can Call It Another Lonely Day](http://archiveofourown.org/works/139213/chapters/200088)]

They're drinking at a fast and furious pace; the waiters can't keep up with them. After a while, David's starting to see the world through the glaze of alcohol, the distortion of glass, and it could lead to potentially inadvisable behavior.

Carrie puts her hands on the table and gets to her feet, smiling sideways at them. "Sorry, boys, you need to excuse me," and she pushes past Kris out of the booth. They watch her head a little unsteadily, but still graceful, towards the facilities.

There's a gap between them all of a sudden. Dave is sliding in to fill it, moving on automatic, when all of a sudden Kris is there, too, leaning in.

Dave puts out an arm on reflex. Then Kris puts his head on David's shoulder, and David pulls his close, though knows that it's not at all advisable: _no more broken hearts, we're better off apart_.

Underneath the messy glory of his hair, Kris' face is peaceful.

Maybe it's the beers, but he feels as if he's back on that stage with Kris, singing their Christmas duet. He'd been very excited to sing the Chuck Berry classic "Run Run Rudolph" with Kris, the song that Springsteen had covered recently and so awesomely with Jon Bon Jovi, two guitar gods on the same stage. Kris had been less optimistic, but he'd had to agree with Fuller that the song was a good fit for him and Dave.

And he was back in that moment, on stage with Kris and the house band, both of them more creative on lead guitar than anyone else in the Idol stable. The driving percussion section laying down the steel honky-tonk rhythm, the pounding bass, the crackling energy surrounding them. Dave had been doing his best to mimic the Boss' reeling, rasping growl: _Out of all the reindeers you know you're the mastermind: run run Rudolph, Randolph ain't too far behind_.

He imitated Springsteen's signature syncopated fret, holding his guitar over his head - the strings burning under his hands, the music filling him from his pointy boots to the crown of his head. The words spilling out of him, he flew alone and free above the screaming crowd.

And then, he wasn't alone, there was a second lead guitar line, battling his for dominance; a second voice joined him, gravelly and golden in the stratosphere, Kris channeling Bon Jovi, Randolph to his mastermind: _Run run Rudolph Santa's got to make it to town - Santa make him hurry, tell him he can take the freeway down_.

The audience went wild as Kris threw his head back and threw down into the second verse. The stage lights turned his hair to fire, slid into the open neck of his shirt and the "8" pinned to his lapel.

_Said Santa to a boy: Child what have you been longing for? All I want for Christmas is a rock and roll electric guitar._

Kris demonstrated exactly how to play that guitar, gleeful and gorgeous and as no-holds-barred as Bon Jovi, sweating as his biceps flexed over his Gibson. Dave had been sweating too, furiously strumming his instrument, the heat rolling off them both under the hot lights. The jagged notes poured off their guitar strings, crashing against each other, their bodies squared off against each other on the stage - Kris, lean and coiled like a spring, Dave bigger, wilder, wielding his bulk as if it were a weapon.

They crossed swords for a moment, then they were grinning at each other fiercely, the sounds of their dueling guitars blending together, twining in melody and counterpoint like they'd been born to play together like this always, and they crashed into the chorus together: _Run run Rudolph Santa's got to make it to town - Run run Rudolph, 'cause we're reelin' like a merry go round._

They made a coordinated, final explosive power chord, raising their guitars together and then strummed down as one.

As the shrieking and applause rose around them, they hugged each other tightly. David felt the tautness of Kris' waist under his arms, smooth cheek against his rougher one. They'd always hugged like this, as if they couldn’t do anything except hold on to each other and enjoy the ride.

Against his hand, now, Kris murmurs, _You know you're the mastermind_ , and he knows the Eighth Idol is remembering the same thing, standing on that stage with him, the sweat and happiness rolling off both of them like guitar music.

"Me? Maybe, but you were never far behind," he tells Kris, meaning it. "You're the surprise Idol, the one nobody saw comin'." And two platinum albums and a boatload of awards later, all naysayers are telling each other, _I told you Kris Allen would be this superstar._

Kris rolls his head a little sleepily on David's shoulder. "Thanks, man. You taught me everything I know."

"Yeah, but not everything _I_ know," says David, before he can stop himself, and Kris turns to face him quizzically.

"You holding out on me, Dave? That's not very nice."

David tries to ignore the spark in Kris' eyes and the tightness in his own chest. "Hey, I can't give away all my secrets!"

"Tell me," and Kris leans over, gripping David's wrist. His mouth is set in insistent lines and David can't look away.

"C'mon, what do you want me to say? How about, I think we make an awesome team: Randolph and Rudolph! Springsteen and Jon have nothing on us."

"We do make a good team," grins Kris, and settles back down onto Dave's shoulder. He runs a calloused thumb over David's wrist, gently, like he's strumming guitar. David swallows.

"Anyway. It's not as if you tell me everything, either."

"I've never kept anything from you." Kris' clouded gaze belies this. David's struck by the many things they haven't said, over the years.

 _Tell me, tell me lies_. "Okay, then, tell me this: how're you doing, really?"

The last nine times or so, Kris has always answered, _Good_ , and that had been that, and David hadn't wanted to pry. This time, it's different. Kris looks down at his empty beer mug. "Y'know, I think I officially drank too much, cause I'm gonna say that it's not going that well."

David feels his heart constrict. "Ah, shit, Kris, I didn't mean -"

"It's okay," says Kris, quietly. "There was the thing with Cale; apparently, he wasn't one of the people I was allowed to date. We're still friends, but it's messing up my concert schedule, and his momma's not speaking to me anymore."

David has a bright visual of Kris' tall guitarist and childhood friend, makes an effort to get past his surprise - and the rush of another emotion. "Not a good idea to date a coworker," is what he says, a little lamely. "Or an employee, actually." Which is more accurate, but Kris winces, and, oh God, he should just shut up now. "Not to say I've never done it; I have. Which is why I get to say to you that it's a bad idea." Someone really ought to shoot him.

Kris looks up at him, and slides a little closer. "Is this what this is, coworkers?" he murmurs, and just like that, the dynamic is different between them. It's also suddenly a lot hotter in this bar.

David has no idea what to say, has no idea what's gotten into Kris, tonight. Maybe it's gotten into him too, he doesn't know any more. "No. _Adam_ was coworkers. _Arch_ was coworkers. Show, tour, employees, it's always bad for morale. You don't shit in your own back yard, think I told you that. This... _this_ isn't show, or tour. This is nothing at all." And he officially has no clue as to what's coming out of his mouth; clearly, his brain doesn't function when Kris is looking at him like this.

Kris' eyes are bottomless. "Then _this_ isn't necessarily a bad idea." His mouth is smiling, but he doesn't move. He doesn't take his hand from David's wrist, but at the same time he doesn't slide any closer, maintains that crucial few inches between them.

Dave isn't sure he wants to hear this. On the one hand, there's a slow burn coiling in the pit of his stomach, and it's been there ever since _tell him he can take the freeway down_. The touch of Kris' hand is fanning that flame, pushing him slowly but surely to the edge. On the other, he's Kris' mentor, Kris is his friend and has had quite enough to drink tonight.

Ah, thank God, someone's back from the ladies' room. "Carrie Underwood, the best idea AI ever had!"

"Not sure about that," Carrie mutters. She looks a little green around the gills. "Listen, it's late, and I need to get some sleep. I have a plane to catch tomorrow, and I'd prefer to run the press gauntlet without looking like I had a threesome with you guys, okay?"

"Is that an invitation?" Shit, Kris must be really drunk; David's never seen him like this, flushed and with a dangerous glint in his eye. It's unexpected, and hot as hell. He needs to get out of this bar before he does something they'll regret.

Carrie groans and holds up a slender hand. "Don't even start with me, Kris Allen. C'mon, guys, I need an escort to my room. And no, that is _not_ an invitation."

  
They end up bookending her into the VIP elevator. The security guys clear the way for them, ensure there are no paparazzi lurking to take hypothetical threesome photographs. Kris holds her while David puts her card into the slot, and the elevator takes them all the way up to the penthouse suite.

"Are you gonna be okay?" Kris asks Carrie, as they prop her against her doorframe.

"The day I need you both to put me to bed is the day I officially sign away my soul in blood," Carrie tells them, with dignity. "And I'm not that desperate for love. Yet, anyway. Good night, boys."

David and Kris are still standing in her doorway when she closes the door gently but firmly in their faces.

"Did she just insult us?" mutters David.

"Yeah, she said she'd be desperate to sleep with us!" Kris finds this hilarious; David has to hold him up. Kris leans against him in the corridor to catch his breath, taut as a string under Dave’s hands, and, come to think of it, David feels kind of desperate himself.

"Dunno what she means. I'd totally sleep with us." God, he is so smooth. He chalks it up to the proximity of Kris' mouth, inches from his.

"Would you? Really?" Again, there's that look again, that makes David hot under his skin, hot everywhere.

Oh, this is such a bad idea. "Do you really expect me to answer that?"

Kris tilts his head back. "You said you're done with holding back on me, man," he says quietly.

David is trying to focus, though it's difficult with Kris in his arms. "Never said that. I said, you need to let me keep some secrets to myself."

Kris' gaze is very steady. "Okay, you can keep your secrets. You don't need to tell me the truth." _Tell me lies._ He's so close that David can see the rapidly beating pulse under his jawline. "We both don't need to."

David swallows. "All right."

 _I'll start,_ Kris' eyes tell him. "I'm kinda drunk. I shouldn't drive home like this."

It's stifling. They need to get out of this corridor. "You know I have a suite here. I don't mind showing it to you."

"Why not," shrugs Kris, and somehow they make it into the elevator.

David manages to get them to the right floor, the right room, with Kris wrapped casually under his arm. Damn him, he's still doing that hovering thing, not leaning closer, not pulling away, it's driving David, very slowly, to distraction.

David makes an impatient, expansive gesture with his free arm. "Voila. It's not as nice as Underwood's, but you can stay if you don't wanna drive."

Kris looks around, as if he's really interested in the carpets and the panels on the walls. "Not desperate yet," he says, casually.

David wants to smack him or kiss the smirk off his face. " _Don't_ stay, then. I couldn't care less."

"Oh, me too." Kris is doing a lot better than David is with keeping his tone light, with sounding believable. "You're not that hot."

 _Tell me sweet little lies._ "No, nor you either. Don't really wanna kiss you." David crooks an eyebrow at Kris. C'mon, surely, _now_.

Kris doesn't lean in, doesn't pull away; stands there, at Dave's side, smiling his shy, sly grin. "I don't either," he murmurs, and David almost bites his tongue with frustration.

David remembers how Kris had danced with Adam this way throughout the eighth season of Idol, remembers the photos of how he'd danced with Cale all tour. How he'd danced with David himself tonight, soaring above that wide stage, grinning and gleeful, the music rolling off them both, barely close enough to touch and yet not close enough.

He's had enough of dancing. It's hot enough under his skin, in his room.

_Let's give it a try._

He watches his own hands make fists in Kris' black shirt. The number 8 falls to the ground as he bends Kris backwards over the hotel couch. Kris makes a small breathless noise, and David can't stand it, can hardly breathe, kisses Kris like he's free falling: _close my, close my, close my eyes._

Kris finally breaks the kiss, and pulls back to look at him. David's panting, he's totally hard, it's ridiculous, he can't read Kris' eyes.

"This...wasn't surprising, at all," Kris says, unevenly. "I always knew you wanted the chance to jump me."

"Don't get ahead of yourself." David is unbuttoning Kris' shirt; he wishes his hands weren't trembling, it's really interfering with his pretend nonchalance. "You're here, I'm lonely. And you've been driving me crazy all night," he adds, truthfully: he wants Kris very badly and thinks maybe he's wanted Kris for a long time, though he hasn't ever admitted it to himself before tonight.

Kris' narrow fingers find their way into David's shirt as well, tugging on buttons, on fine hair. "I'm here, you're lonely, this is just tonight."

 _I'm not making plans_. "Yeah, just tonight." David presses his mouth to Kris' throat, tilts Kris' head back, struggles with Kris' belt buckle. "This doesn't have to mean anything."

"This doesn't mean anything," murmurs Kris, his arms circling David's back possessively, grinding up against him, and David seriously can't breathe anymore. "I know you're just warming up."

David groans against Kris' neck. "That's right. I'm keeping you warmed up, for Adam." God, he doesn't know what he's saying, legs tangled in Kris', pinning him between his thighs; he hears Kris groan, too, knows there's something there that's making Kris wild, that maybe doesn't have to do with David at all.

Kris' voice is rough. "Yeah, and I'm keeping you warmed up, for Arch - oh _no_ ," and Kris goes rigid, realizing the line that he's suddenly crossed, at the thought of Allison, even in the heat of the moment like this.

David stops, too, pulls himself up on his elbows to look at Kris' stricken eyes. "Kris. Hey." He cups Kris' face in his hands, gently. "I'm kidding. I didn't mean...Kris, it's you, _you_."

He's not sure where the tenderness is coming from, but Kris' eyes get soft, and he winds his fingers in David's hair. "David, I'm sorry," he whispers.

 _I hope that you understand there's a reason why_. Dave decides he's done talking, and pushes Kris down into the couch.

It's first-time messy, and frantic and glorious; Dave is kind of glad for the many beers, because they allow him to take this a little more slowly than he'd otherwise have managed. He wants to take it all the way down with Kris, so he figures he should soften him up first, and when he opens Kris' black jeans and takes him in hand, employing the syncopated fretting stroke he uses to play guitar, Kris presses his face into the crook of David's neck and makes a wet sound, as if he's coming apart.

Afterwards: "Shit, you're strong," Kris murmurs, in surprise, and David feels like he's fucking superhuman as he lifts Kris in his arms and takes him to bed: it must be the beers, or the imminent satisfaction after their long dance.

Kris is whipcord strong as well, and knows what to do with his mouth, both of them more creative than anyone else in the Idol stable, on guitar, and, David thinks, on this. Kris grins ferociously when David fumbles with his single booty-call condom, the sample-size bottle of lubricant; his hands run down the bones in David's spine like they're music notes. When David's slick fingers finally breach him, curling up, filling him, his hands close over David's hips, gripping hard enough to leave marks. Their bodies mesh as easily as their dueling guitar lines had earlier, tightness and heat, the music rolling off them in waves; suddenly, all the beers in the world aren't enough to take the frantic edge off their rhythm as Kris digs bruises into his back, and David's cursing helplessly and coming all too soon.

As he rolls off and to the side, he hears Kris' voice in his head, fierce and exultant, _No more broken hearts, let's give it a try_.

  
David wakes from restless dreams to the early morning light. Before he's opened his eyes, he's aware of a warm weight, a counterpoint, in his bed.

_I couldn't find a way, so I'll settle for one day to believe in you_

He sees Kris is already awake, holding himself very still, watching David. It looks like he's been awake for some time.

"Hey," David says, a little awkwardly. He isn't sure what to say. He usually has no problems with the morning-after conversation, so being this tongue-tied is a first.

Kris shifts away from him. His eyes are clouded with thoughts he isn't voicing. "I was wondering what I’d say when you woke up," he says, a little hesitantly.

"Are we still with the no truth-telling?" David asks cautiously; he doesn't know what the rules are this morning with Kris, where everything and nothing has changed.

Kris shrugs. The dawn light makes patterns over his bare shoulder and the muscles in his chest. "It worked for us last night," he says, softly.

"Something was working for us, all right," says David, remembering, and there's Kris' sly, shy grin again, which David can't resist, and realizes he doesn't have to. Morning-after kissing is usually kind of gross, but he can't get enough of it, for some reason, and Kris is kissing back at least equally enthusiastically; it's soft and slow and deep and David never wants it to end.

When Kris rolls him onto his back and straddles him, he murmurs, a little dazedly, "What happened to, 'this is just tonight'?"

"I was lying," says Kris, archly, sliding down his body, mouth and calloused hands intent.

Later, they subside, tangled and sweaty, against the wreck of the sheets. Lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, David can almost feel the second thoughts, the doubts, slowly circle around them both and regroup in their shared bed. _We're better off apart, tell me lies_.

"You know," he tells Kris finally, "I'm gonna have to get on a plane at noon."

Kris is pressed against his side; David feels him shrug slowly. "You're a free agent, man. Say the word, I'm out of here."

Kris' tone is very casual, but David's stomach suddenly drops away, and he has to take a moment to ensure his voice remains steady.

"You know, I'm in Deer Valley for Christmas. If you're not doing anything, or need to hide out from Cale's momma, you could come join us for a couple of days." Oh, David, tread carefully. "Not a big deal, of course."

_Although I'm not making plans, I hope that you understand there's a reason why._

Kris is silent for a beat, and then he pulls himself up so he can look at Dave. "Sounds fun," he says, noncommittally. "If I come, this...this will be cool, won't it? It won't mean anything."

"Yeah." David can't meet Kris' gaze; he looks up at the ceiling. "You can come or not, it's up to you. You can stay if you want, also. It doesn't have to mean anything. Unless, unless you want it to."

And then he holds his breath. The usual morning-after conversation's taken a sudden turn, he's not sure where it’s headed, or if it’s headed anywhere at all.

He's never had a morning-after conversation with another Idol before, as it happened. Maybe that was conducive to the honesty, after the long night of lies: maybe Kris could see past his bullshit, his mechanisms of self-interest and self-defense, right to the heart of him.

Kris is quiet again, then reaches over and holds David's chin between his thumb and forefinger. David's shaken at how transparent his eyes are, suddenly; Dave can almost see to the bottom of his soul.

It's as if Kris has decided to start telling the truth after all.

"I don't want to leave, David."

 _Oh no, no you can't disguise._ "Then stay," David says, and takes his hand.

Maybe they've both decided to start.

[[Want to turn the page instead? They've got what it takes, this blows them all away, so why can't this be love?](http://archiveofourown.org/works/139213/chapters/200097)] 

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas, Cee! Hope you enjoy this little adventure as much as I enjoyed making it for you! Thanks to amazing betas [](http://lasadh.livejournal.com/profile)[**lasadh**](http://lasadh.livejournal.com/), [](http://leici.livejournal.com/profile)[**leici**](http://leici.livejournal.com/) and [](http://cincodemaygirl.livejournal.com/profile)[**cincodemaygirl**](http://cincodemaygirl.livejournal.com/). Links to Christmas songs here: Idols sing Kids From Fame's ["Starmaker"](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ldsaPMUY0DI), Carrie and Dave cover The Pogues' ["Fairytale of New York"](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NrAwK9juhhY), David and Kris throw down on Springsteen and Jon Bon Jovi's version of Chuck Berry's [Run Run Rudolph](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EaxAA4kG5r8).


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